


Wishes are no horses

by Valandhir



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, what if
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-26
Updated: 2013-08-26
Packaged: 2017-12-24 17:00:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/942362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valandhir/pseuds/Valandhir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Faramir followed the vision to Rivendell</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wishes are no horses

The day Boromir learned of his brother’s death was a wretched spring day in Ithilien; a constant rainstorm had been blowing from the south for three days, drenching the entire landscape in a deluge that turned the grounds into a virtual swamp. In the middle of all that they had encountered the Haradrim moving their troops north, a group of Mûmakil, several hundred foot soldiers. Boromir’s men had been hopelessly outnumbered. Still, they had caused the Haradrim dire losses, chasing their marching group apart in the end, but Erandar had not made it; three arrows through the chest finished him off.   
And when Boromir came to Henneth Annun he was not in the mood for any new troubles, or anything else for that matter. He wanted some quiet, at least a moment to say his goodbyes to a comrade and friend of twenty years. But once they were in the caves, Anarion approached him; with Erandar dead and Mablung severely injured, leadership of the fraying Ranger force had reverted to him. “I know this is a bad time, Captain.” Anarion at least had the sense to look somewhat abashed. “We did capture two strange creatures in the wilds, as they tried to hide from the Haradrim. One of them had this.” And he had handed Boromir a very familiar dagger, Faramir’s dagger.   
He knew that Anarion would have recognized the blade instantly; Ranger blades were marked in secret ways that most warriors could not decipher. “It was not taken by force, Captain,” Anarion supplied, guessing his questions. “It is marked as given away freely. It… it asks for assistance.” 

“That will be all, Anarion. Gather the Rangers, we move out past midnight.” Boromir kept the dagger as he went to see the captives: two small, diminutive figures crouching in another cavern. They jumped to their feet when he walked in.

“My men are saying they found this with you.” Boromir raised his hand to let them see the dagger. “And I want to know how you came by it.”

The stouter of the two small figures rose from where he had been sitting. “One of your people gave me that,” he said, shaking his head. “His name was Faramir. He was a Lord of sorts amongst your kind, if I understood that right. He gave me that blade a few days before he died and you might want to respect that.”

“He died?” Had the grounds opened under Boromir’s feet and swallowed him whole, had the Witch King himself appeared in that cave, it would have been easier to deal with than those words. “Are… are you saying Faramir was killed?”

The other captive had risen. He was thin, wide-eyed and had an oddly gentle expression on his face. “He died near the falls of Rauros,” he said. “He was a brave comrade and…” He shook his head. “He was a good man. In dying he spoke of his brother. I do not know your land, but if you know of his brother… could you see that he learns of Faramir’s passing?”

Slowly Boromir sat down on a rock in the cave, his heart hammering against his ribs. Why, oh why had he ever agreed to his father’s decision to send Faramir north? Why had he not insisted? Because he had been happy that his father would entrust something important to Faramir, because it had been the first sign of peace between those two in months and months. “Faramir was my little brother.” He had to push those words out, handing the dagger back to the stout captive. “And if you ventured with him… What can you tell me?”

Frodo and Sam, as the names of the captives proved to be, had sat down with him in the cave and what they told him of their journey in the few hours before midnight was a tale of adventures, danger and darkness. They never specifically mentioned their errand, nor did they directly speak of how Faramir had died, but between the lines of their story was a wealth of fear. As Anarion reported the troop ready to move out at midnight, Boromir had made his decision. “You are still on that task you departed with from Rivendell, are you not?” he asked Frodo.

The Halfling nodded tiredly. “We need to go deep into the Enemy lands to accomplish the mission. I had hoped your brother would be with us to guide us…” 

Again there was a strange expression in his eyes when he looked at Boromir, but Boromir hardly noticed it. His decision was made. Faramir had given his life to see this mission done and all he could do was honor his brother’s sacrifice by seeing this task would be completed. “Anarion, have Damrod and Anborn report here; they will accompany Frodo and Sam,” he ordered, ignoring the surprise he saw rise in Anarion’s eyes. Turning back to the Halflings, he saw their eyes widened, a mix of nervousness and… something he could not name. “They will guide you. They are two of the best Rangers I still have.”

***

The days that followed passed like a dream, or a nightmare for Boromir. He kept fighting, leading his men against the Haradrim forces, trying to shatter their flooding towards the Black Gates. When he was fighting, he could forget about the gaping hole inside him, and during the breaks between fighting, he began to talk about his plans to Anarion. The young Ranger was smart enough to keep up and sensitive enough to know he could never replace Faramir. Nevertheless he listened, offering suggestions now and then, but they were rarely needed. It was someone to talk to, Boromir needed, not necessarily someone to answer him, and Anarion’s calm presence was enough like Faramir’s that Boromir sometimes could forget he was not talking to his brother anymore. 

Osgiliath went down in fire and blood. It were nine days of fighting and when they finally retreated, the river was black with Orc corpses, the city a blazing torch of destruction. Boromir led the last of the fighters across Pelennor and towards the city, chased by Nazgûl and Drakhár in the air and Orcs on the ground, they reached the white walls, but to no good welcome. Denethor hardly acknowledged Boromir’s return, closing himself in his study, refusing discussions or words. Being dismissed from his father’s presence Boromir turned his mind back to the defense. The Armies of the Witch King were marching and there was no hope at the horizon. 

“You need some rest too, Captain.” Anarion’s voice was low enough for him to overhear, when the young Ranger finally spoke his mind. “You have not slept in days.” 

The words did not anger Boromir; in a way they touched him, a reminder that there were others who cared about him, who tried to look out for him. “I cannot rest, Anarion. We have a battle to fight soon,” he answered, his eyes out on the Pelennor. They both stood on the high walls, seeing the darkness approach from the East. There would be no dawn come morning. 

“And we all only have a limited strength to give.” Anarion squared his shoulders, not backing off. “And you are at your limit. Boromir, the men know what happened, since Mithrandir and that Halfling arrived. Everyone knows that Lord Faramir won’t return. Every man needs tome to grieve.”

How much courage had he worked up to call him by name? It was definitely a first. “Boromir may grieve,” the Captain replied, meeting Anarion’s eyes. “And the Captain of Gondor has sympathies for him, like he’d have for any soldier who lost a brother to this war. But, like with any other soldier, he’d expect him to pick himself up and fight on.” 

Anarion bowed his head and sighed. “We will need you to survive, you know?” The words were only a whisper before the Ranger turned to leave.

“Anarion.” Boromir’s call stopped the Ranger’s departure. “Thank you for trying. It is good to have you here.”

The Siege was all Boromir had come to expect from the East, and within a day he knew the city would not hold. There were too few defenders, they lacked the riders to chase apart the Orc formations and the men on the walls began to lose hope. All the harder he fought and when the Rohirrim arrived, he led the charge against the center of the Orc legions. Hope came; like a dream stepping right out of legend itself arrived an army of ghostly fighters, led by one man alone to free the city. Stories later would tell that it ended the battle, but it only began the true slaughter, for the Easterlings would not give ground and fought like cornered lions. 

When Boromir saw the archers close in on the leader of the pale army, he knew what they were playing at; they hoped that the ghost army would disperse once their commander was killed. It was a reasonable assumption. Moving between them and the pale army commander, he pushed the man out of the way, catching the first barrage with his shield. But the second barrage came too swiftly. Three arrows hissed over the rim of his battered shield, impacting into his chest. Boromir felt the air ripped from his lungs when he collapsed to his knees, and then the darkness claimed him. 

***

Waking up was a painful affair. Several times he had the feeling that he was forcibly put under again, but eventually he managed to force his eyes open. “Leave him. He is fighting still, and his will is stronger than the drug,” a foreign voice said.

A man stepped into Boromir’s swimming vision. He had a proud Numenorán face, framed by dark hair and piercing grey eyes, reminding Boromir of the statues by the Walk of Kings. He knew who this was beyond doubt, though why he was here still escaped his drugged mind. “The battle, how badly did we do?” he rasped, his voice barely obeying him.

“We won. The enemy armies fled across the river. The city is safe.” There was a smile in those captivating grey eyes. “And you are one stubborn warrior to heal. By rights you should not even be awake; a full cup of dreambane should send any living warrior sleeping for hours.”

Dreambane, the same horrid stuff Erandar had used against the pain of countless injuries. Boromir recognized the taste on his tongue still. “I apologize for being a stubborn warrior, my Lord, but the army will need their Captain awake and able to think straight.” He pushed himself up, finding he could semi-sit, if he used his elbows to lean on. 

The other man shook his hand. “No titles, not from the man who almost died to save me,” he said. “My name is…”

“Thorongil, Aragorn… I did hear.” Boromir exhaled slowly, focusing on speaking steadily, banishing the weakness from his voice. “Frodo spoke of you.”

“Frodo?” Genuine surprise widened Aragorn’s eyes. “You know of him? Have you… have you seen him?”

“Ten… no, twelve days ago in Ithilien,” Boromir replied. “Two of my best scouts are bringing him and his brave gardener across the mountains, which makes the untimely Easterling retreat a problem.”

Aragorn sat down on the chair beside the bed, his face reflecting hope and awe in equal measure. “You just gave me the best tidings… I never hoped they would come that far. But you are right; with all the dark armies between them and Mount Doom, their mission is all but failed.”

Mount Doom – the Sammath Naur? Boromir wished Faramir were here. He would probably know what that meant. But he was not here and what was needed was not understanding the nature of Frodo’s mission, but a solution, and he could think of that. “We need a plan,” he said, sitting up fully, ignoring the pain rising in his chest. 

“You should rest. We had to cut three arrows out of you. One only barely missed your lungs,” Aragorn said, shaking his head, “You should not even think of the next campaign.”

“The next attack waits on no man, and the enemy always comes back when you least need him.” Boromir was not deterred and it ended like always: the healers claimed he was too weak, he said he was all right and there was no doubt about who said the truth. 

Aragorn was less easily pushed off. “There is too much on you already,” he said, his voice softening. “Too much to burden you…”

Boromir knew that gaze, the kind of gaze indicating there was more that had happened. “Aragorn, tell me the truth, what has transpired?” he asked, knowing he should not demand the truth of the future King, but being in no mood to be coddled. 

Aragorn took his words with a quiet nod. “Your father… Boromir, he took his own life. I do not know why, or what transpired, for no one was there to see it. He went to Rath Dínen and built a pyre for himself. For the very life of me I cannot imagine what compelled him to undertake such an act against himself.”

"No tomb! No long slow sleep of death embalmed. I will burn like heathen kings before ever a ship sailed hither from the West." Boromir quoted the words he had heard his father whisper during their last meeting. “He… made his choice. And we better get back to making a plan.” He had to get back to duty. 

Within a day he was back at his feet, and if there sometimes were painful spikes inside his chest, he had Anarion procure that bitter tea Faramir had used to cure him of a similar problem. The plan they came up with was desperate and effective. All their hopes hinged on two small Hobbits and on Sauron’s greed to take the bait, to believe in the legend of the Sea Kings. Aragorn had suggested Boromir remain behind, being the last of the Steward’s house, but Boromir had refused. “I am no Steward, Aragorn,” he had told the other man as they went to the horses. “And mayhap I will never be. I was to be the sword of Gondor, my brother its Steward. I asked my Uncle Imrahil to take up my father’s duties until you return to the city.” 

***

Not in his wildest dreams had Boromir expected to ever seen the White City again, but he did. He survived the Battle of the Black Gates and saw Barad-Dûr collapse, Mordor consumed by its own fire. He had never hoped to see the day it all ended, and yet he had been there, silently wishing Faramir could see it too, could somehow know that there had come an end to the long night. As the King returned to Minas Tirith, Boromir, as the last of the House of Húrin, surrendered the office of the ruling stewards, and the office was ended. He felt no sadness for it; this was an end and a new beginning all the same. 

The reign of the King began hopeful and bright, with Gondor recovering from the wounds of war and Boromir all but expected his task of Captain of Gondor to become a lot quieter, until only two years after the Battle of the Black Gates the Haradrim crossed the Paros, their forces overrunning Ithilien within days. Dispatched from Minas Tirith in a hurry, Boromir led Gondor’s army against them, pushing them back to the crossings of Paros and back into Harad. 

It was only the beginning. The first Harad-campaign preceded the second, followed by the first, second and third campaign of Khand. Boromir’s life turned from the White City to the war camps and he began to feel at home again. Most of the time he had Anarion at his back, knowing that as long as Anarion was standing, no foe would stab him in the back, and he enjoyed the man’s quiet company. It was not Faramir, and Anarion knew that he could not replace him, but it was almost the next best thing. 

Oddly enough the wars brought about a kind of friendship with Aragorn, or maybe their friendship had begun that day on the Pelennor and had only been buried in the formalities of court. It was not a warm, heartfelt friendship, but one born of trust, of relying on each other and of discovering that they made a formidable team. Aragorn was a superior leader and King and Boromir was the military commander, who had yet to meet a foe he could not defeat. 

When the South finally grew quiet, they turned North. Aragorn had often spoken of reclaiming his old homeland of Arnor and Boromir encouraged him in that. Fighting in Arnor came the closest to having fun Boromir would ever find; he enjoyed discovering the land that had shaped Aragorn and these Orcs, not to mention the Goblins, were the strangest, refreshingly crazy pack he had ever come across. It felt good to see Arnor rise from ruins and become a true Kingdom of Men again. He only wished Faramir could see it too; he would be all over the ancient lore of the land. But he was not here and all Boromir could do was to try and preserve whatever ancient documents and remains he came across. 

***

The evening Boromir learned how his brother had died was a wretched winter night of the North. A storm had broken loose at the ice bay of Forochel and covered all Eriador with snow and howling winds until even hardened soldiers believed they could hear the shrieks of the wandering souls in the howls of the wind. It had been a quiet informal evening. Her Ladyship, Queen Arwen, had retreated early, citing her wish to look after little Eldarion, leaving Aragorn and Boromir to talk. Somehow they ended up discussing the Shire and Mayor Samwise Gamgee, the ‘brave gardener’ as Boromir still would call him, when in the mood. 

“I never asked you,” Aragorn said suddenly. “But how did you let them go, back in Ithilien? You had them there and the Ring right in front of you, with an army of Men that would never question an order you give. You could have taken the Ring.”

Boromir put aside the jar of wine and his eyes went to the fire. “I never knew they had it,” he replied honestly. “And I was too tired to unriddle their errand. A good friend had died only hours before, more Haradrim were coming and Faramir… Faramir had died on that mission. Maybe I was too slow, too stupid, but I never knew what their mission was, only that it needed finishing. Call me a fool of a soldier. I knew someone who did often enough.”

Aragorn looked at him, the strangest expression in his eyes. “Not a fool, maybe more honest a character than many in this world,” he said, sadness echoing in his voice. “Frodo said you helped them to honor Faramir’s… sacrifice.”

There it was again. Boromir had heard it before in Aragorn’s voice, the strange tone that would creep in when he spoke of Faramir. Oh, he had never said anything bad about him when he spoke of their adventures, but that tone had always been there. It was like a regret, or an old pain. “What did truly happen, the day my brother died?” Boromir asked, refilling both their jars. “And don’t say nothing. You have told me much about his last months, how you crossed Hollin, your adventures in Moria, in Lórien. You said all the things any brother would want to hear, all the things one tells the surviving family, so they can feel proud of their lost one. I’ve done the same, only it is not always the truth.”

Aragorn drained the wine from his jar and shook his head. “I did not lie to you, Boromir. All I told you happened. Faramir was… extraordinary. We met in Rivendell and he knew who I was, meeting me openly. There was no enmity, and no false devotion either, but support. We planned the scouting of the roads together, he supported me in the council… and he helped Frodo a lot on the journey. I counted myself blessed he was with us.” 

“Past tense.” Boromir may not be as quick on the uptake as his brother had been, but he had learned to listen to twisted words and pick up the important details. “Something changed all that, didn’t it? Aragorn, what happened?”

“The truth will bring you only pain, Boromir, and when your brother died, he spoke of you…” Aragorn sighed. “He feared he had failed you and your father.”

“The truth brings you pain too; I can see you struggle with it, have seen it for years now. Sometimes the truth needs out, so the wounds it dealt us can heal.” Boromir inwardly steeled himself, for whatever Aragorn had to say, it could not be good. 

“When did you become so wise?” Aragorn rose and walked to the window of the room. “Faramir was a great support for Frodo; always there to listen, always protecting him… and secretly sowing doubts into Frodo’s mind. He had specific orders from your father, I fear, and he was smart about executing them. He made no demands, he supported me in all things, but slowly worked on Frodo at the same time. In Amon Hen… Frodo was ready to give him the Ring, convinced Faramir could do better with it than he ever could. He was ready to hand the Ring over, but I came upon them by chance and stepped in…”

Boromir looked down as he realized the rest, and maybe a part of him had long since guessed. “You fought him and you killed him.” He said the words as calmly as he could. 

“He fought like a wild one, much like you, all strength and will, no style and no reservations. I tried to disarm him, but it is like sparring with you; I lose two out of three times.” Aragorn bowed his head. “Only… only when he was lethally wounded, he came to his senses, asking my forgiveness… speaking of you. He was himself at the end, free of the shadow.” 

Boromir rose slowly, his heart heavier than ever before. “You fought alone, no one else involved?” he asked, stepping beside Aragorn, their eyes meeting.

“It was an honorable duel,” Aragorn replied, sadness in his eyes. “And for years I have been searching for the words to tell you I slew your brother.”

“You did not,” Boromir barely heard his own voice. “Slay him, that is. Do you remember that first time we sparred? The tricks that puzzled you and made you lose time and again? I trained Faramir myself, and he knew all of them. If you won, then that was because there was a part of him that knew he was wrong, and he chose to die by the hand of his King, rather than… than becoming a tool of the darkness.” 

It was the last of their talks forever; Boromir would not have ended their friendship, though he was deeply hurt inside. But Shantar, the Lord Commander of Rhûn, did him the favor of beginning a new campaign against Gondor only a week later. Boromir would have a called it a friendly turn, if the situation was not so dire. It was the beginning of the long war, of fifteen years of fighting against Rhûn and the Empire. If he was proud of anything in those years, then it was that he managed to keep Gondor free. No Easterling stepped on her grounds again, even if their armies fought far beyond the Sea of Rhûn. 

When they reached the Great Inland Sea and marched on the Eastern Capital, Boromir found himself faced with the amassed Armies Eternal and, for the first time in his life, with a trap meant only for himself. He had guessed that Shantar’s son Shangraile only wanted to avenge his father; he had lost his father and grandfather to Boromir’s blade after all, and might hold a grudge. He was all that Boromir had known in Shakurán: strong, agile and absolutely lethal. Within the first bout Boromir knew that his opponent had been strengthened with Shadow and within the next few exchanges he learned that he was faced with death. The battle had drawn past them. It was only them and the bodies of the fallen on that snowy plain by the Great Inland Sea. Boromir might still have won – he had faced many a man half his age and come out on top – but he underestimated Shangraile’s courage, his will to die. The final attack he brought down on him, Shangraile did not evade or even try to parry. Instead he sunk his blade deeply into Boromir’s chest.

Both fighters fell, landing on the frozen grounds, the hot blood flooding from his chest feeling almost scalding to Boromir. His eyes fell on the younger man who had defeated him. Shangraile’s face was pale, the strengthening he had received evaporated. “Why?” Boromir hardly heard his own voice, like death had already taken the words away.

Still, Shangraile heard him. “Had to be that way,” he coughed, pain wrecking through his body. “We have the best strategist of the day on our side. Take you out and your King will not be able to hold the field.”

It had been a trap for him, with one man to take him down and in his heart Boromir held no grudge against the younger warrior. He had fought well, bravely. The cold came, like the heavy snowflakes falling down on them. Was the night already coming? Boromir saw Shangraile shiver, pain evident in his eyes, though he was good at keeping it inside. “You had to play the hero, hadn’t you?” The question was half asked to Shakurán, long dead and gone.

“Not a hero…” Shangraile pushed the words out. “Unless you die.” His voice cracked at the last bit, the pain becoming too strong for him.

Gently Boromir reached over to the dying young Easterling, pushing a few blood-soaked streaks of hair away from his face. “It will all be over soon.” The cold spread over them like a blanket and the darkness crept from the river, wide and endless as the skies, claiming them both. 

***

The bodies were found in the first light of dawn, and Aragorn could scarcely believe it. Boromir… He had always been so strong, almost indestructible, and now he lay dead in the snows. His hand was still resting on the shoulder of the man who had killed him, almost like they had embraced in death. Or had Boromir been comforting his killer during his last moments? It would oddly fit him; he had always treated other soldiers, his own or the enemy, with the respect he felt they deserved. 

The grave was on a steep hill above the road towards the Great Inland Sea, but it tore Aragorn’s heart knowing that Boromir would rest in foreign lands, far from the White City, but aside of the impossibility of sending the body home for burial, he knew that Boromir would prefer to share his rest with his soldiers, with those he had led into this battle and would want no treatment different from them. Erecting the tomb had been almost impossible in the icy cold of the new year, that began with storms and snow. The armies had been assembled when Boromir had been laid to rest, and now they had dispersed. 

Aragorn stood alone on the hill by the simple grave and he wished he had the chance to talk to Boromir again. Steps approached and he looked up. No one else had come here aside of the soldiers and Aragorn half expected to see Anarion; he had been the closest thing to a friend that Boromir had. But it was a stranger who approached, short and very thin, wrapped in a grey cloak, face half hidden behind a scarf, the rest obscured by long dark hair, torn by the wind. He stood in silence before the grave and then put a simple carved stone on it, before he turned around and walked away.

Who he had been Aragorn did not know, and what he had been to Boromir he could only guess. A slave freed on one of the many campaigns? A comrade from long ago? A friend even… Whatever it had been, the Captain of Gondor had taken that secret to the grave. And deep down Aragorn felt that it should have been all different. He thought of Faramir, sleeping in his lonely grave in Amon Hen, dying on Aragorn’s blade, wounded in body and soul. And he wished it had been Boromir who had come to Rivendell all those long years ago, that he had Boromir by his side during the quest… But wishes were no horses, and all that remained for Aragorn was to wish Boromir a speedy journey into the land where pain and darkness were but a memory, as he stood alone before the grave and around him fell another icy night over the plains of East.

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter comes with thanks to the wonderful LadyDunla who took up correcting it the moment she was back and who is still patient with my odd spelling.
> 
> At the moment I am struggling with a major writer’s block and this was the only tale taking root in my mind. 
> 
> This is a work of non-profit fan fiction using characters from the Hobbit/Lord of the Rings world, which is trademarked by J.R.R. Tolkien. All characters created and owned by Tolkien INC, and I do not claim any ownership over them or the world of Middle Earth. The story I tell here is my own invention, and it is not purported or believed to be part of J.R.R. Tolkien's story canon. This story is for entertainment only and is not part of the official story line. I am grateful to J.R.R. Tolkien for his wonderful stories about Middle Earth, for without his books, my story would not exist.


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